No title

(Source: chiragbatra)


()()() by Louis Hvejsel Bork

In some mythology you can control something or someone if you know their true name. What if you had a kind of brute forcing megaphone and just shouted random strings of texts until you got the true name. What if the true name cannot be spoken, maybe it’s silence, or a song that is unsung.

How could we find our true names? Try to, like Descartes, or more seriously like Zen Buddhists, dismantle our socially constructed selves until we find the thing we cannot remove? If we could name that, would that be our true name? How could a thing so fundamental, it’s beyond words (beyond conditioning and knowledge) be called by anything? Maybe it can only be ‘done,’ like the event of a star collapsing. Then how would you call it, you would call it by dancing.

reblog if your vagina glows in the dark

(Source: naniithran)

I have to try hard
not to take home the snapping turtle

I wish like a lover admiring her love
I could look at his decorated body 
all the time: shapes and ridges better
than a matisse 

But, what holds me back, is I know
he’s the king of this creek personified 

Snug snout, caught by a line of
sunlight, long coat and tail in shadow:
he waits for me to move—

It’s never been so hard for me to let go
of what doesn’t belong to me
but half of beauty is complexity and
the rest is loss 

Goodbye my friend: live and grow.

What you think truth is?
Half-smart writers produce articles and
popular books, but what they know?
In their eyes I don’t feel any poetry.
It’s just blank, fame, or something—no weakness
no genius, no sincerity only a kind of death—

What if today, was the strangest day of
your life, but all the others were exactly the same—
as if the strangeness was well contained,
and none of it spilled out like
emotion is apt to do.

When I was younger I’d play chess
all day long, even when I was supposed to
study; chess is like life, unless you
try to get better, you can play all you want
but you won’t get good—time catches
up with me

If you could live a billion years would
you get insanely bored? Maybe there’s
too much experience there and the human
body is too small, like pumping a whole
power plant’s electricity into one meager
wire: blows out—riches can’t by you a new
case yet.

My girlfriend’s sister accused me of
being proud of my writing, for trying to show
it to people—I told her it was just my way of
saying hello, being absolutely alone in my
soul for so long, I want to leave the
light on for the strange

So much piles on, it piles on like
music and songs played right on top
of each other, and soon you lose track
and can’t hold on anymore: what if my body
disintegrated right now—what if it blew away
into dust: then I’d be a real poet.


Barron & Larcher fabric via Bird & Banner


Barron & Larcher fabric via Bird & Banner